


Spirit

by spittingfeathers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, fixing the mess D&D made, what the hell was season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-04 17:29:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4146450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spittingfeathers/pseuds/spittingfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They do not see her as she jumps into the fire. </p><p>There is a girl there, choking on smoke and her screams as her tears are burned away almost as soon as they leave her eyes. She doesn’t see the wolf, only gasps and pleads for help as she feels sharp teeth chew away at the ropes binding her hands and feet.</p><p>It takes too long. The girl is gasping for air, and as the ropes finally give way her heart skips a beat as she reaches out, her silver paws turning into silver hands to catch the girl as she falls into Sansa’s arms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dream

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so glad that Game of Thrones ended at Season 4, I daresay they would have ruined and/or killed off my favourite characters!

She dreams of snow beneath her paws, the rush of excitement as she runs through woods, open plains and across chilled streams. She is agile, strong, fearless, uncontrollable. She is part of the pack, different to how she once was, but reborn anew with reddish fur, so different from Lady’s soft silver and grey. The freedom she feels in her dreams is an escape she longs for and The Pack can offer that. It’s made up of over a hundred wolves and they all run and hunt and play and sleep together. They are new to her, and yet, there is one who is not.

Her sister smells different, her wolf bigger, and in her waking moments Sansa will cry because she is still a prisoner in her own home and it is all just a dream that could never be true. Her sister, Arya, is lost, as is her wolf, so when she dreams of Nymeria running beside her and sharing the first bites of the hunt with her, the eyes far too knowing, that Sansa wonders if perhaps she is going mad. After all she has endured it would not be surprising, but she doesn’t care. Nights of madness are better than her waking moments and she sinks further into the dreams, each time they become more and more real. It is as though she can feel the sharp bite of cold winds and the warm rush of blood in her mouth as she sinks her teeth into the throat of a deer.

Myranda infuriates her while Ramsay terrifies her.

She mourns Theon, and pities Reek.

One night she falls asleep and wakes up almost immediately amongst her pack. The world feels a little more solid than before, more like reality than the one she lives in back at Winterfell.

 _If this is madness, let it be so, I do not want to wake again_.

Sansa runs with the pack. They hunt and play and rest again, like they always do. She feels refreshed and happy until she realises something is different. She can smell men, and smoke, and fear…

Sansa runs toward the scent though her pack nips at her heels and whines for her to turn around. Nymeria snaps at her, asking her to leave without words, but she _can’t_. She needs to go forward, the strange pull is too strong and she cannot resist.

A pained scream pierces the air.

She pushes herself forward, hair standing on end, heart beating hard in her chest. Sansa doesn’t notice that her fur is no longer red, that she can no longer feel the bite of the wind or the cold crunch of snow beneath her paws. Sansa keeps running, her paws carrying her faster and faster until the pack is far behind her and the scent of fear and smoke and men grows stronger in her nose.

Now far behind her, a wolf with reddish fur shakes its head, sniffs the air and whines. It hurries back toward the safety of the pack.

Sansa does not notice, she continues on, a wolf made of light shining brightly in the darkness of night.

*****

He had said _no_.

“Stop.”

Melisandre looks at him, torch held high and her eyes narrow with annoyance. “But Your Grace, The Lord of Light—”

“I said _stop!_ ” Stannis moves forward, through his gathered soldiers and toward the Pyre his daughter is tied to. Davos is right behind him.

Melisandre lowers the torch. He is too far away.

“Sieze her!”

His men obey, they snatch her arms and yank her down, relieved that their king has finally seen sense…but the torch falls from the Red Woman’s grip and sets the wood ablaze.

Shireen begins to scream.

*****

There is a blast. What was only a spark turns into an inferno and throws those surrounding the fire metres away. The flames reach high into the sky, the heat immense and she can see the way the men around it pick themselves up. One man who was thrown back scrambles to his feet and charges toward the pyre but is held back by soldiers.

The pyre screams.  

“FATHER!”

*****

Her cheek is made of stone, but the rest of her is melting in the heat. Her hair and dress catch alight and the pain is unbearable. Smoke clogs her lungs and her screams become choked whimpers.

She is Princess Shireen of House Baratheon and she is going to die.

*****

They do not see her as she jumps into the fire.

There is a girl there, choking on smoke and her screams as her tears are burned away almost as soon as they leave her eyes. She doesn’t see the wolf, only gasps and pleads for help as she feels sharp teeth chew away at the ropes binding her hands and feet.

It takes too long.

The girl is gasping for air, and as the ropes finally give way her heart skips a beat as she reaches out, her silver paws turning into silver hands to catch the girl as she falls into Sansa’s arms.

Part of her wonders how she is able to hold the girl when she seems to be made of light, but the thought is pushed away quickly when she realises that while she cannot feel the heat, the girl can.

If this is her dream then she can do anything.

Sansa closes her eyes.

It begins to snow.

_The fire grows weaker._

The wind sends a fierce chill through the beams of wood.

_The fire grows weaker._

She is ice and snow and storms. She is the North. Winter is coming.

The flames are extinguished with a _hiss_.

Sansa opens her eyes to see the soldiers looking up at her in terrified awe and as she steps down from the blackened smoking pyre onto the snow. Their eyes slip down to the girl in her arms. Terrible red burns stretch across her hands and face and down her neck. Half her dress has been eaten away by the flames, the rest still smokes though no longer aflame, revealing more burns and dark red marks that will surely blister given time.

A man steps forward, the one who had tried to run to the pyre before, to stand no more than a metre away. The girl has the same look as him, and what little hair is left is just as dark.

“ _Shireen_ …” he breathes, his voice pained. His eyes pour over her features, how still she is and Sansa wonders whether he knows his daughter is still alive.

Sansa can feel the faint beat of her heart against her chest and she looks from the man down to the daughter and slowly lowers her to the floor.

This is her dream after all.

*****

Stannis watches as his daughter is lowered to the ground by the spirit, her silver hair sliding forward to conceal her face as she lays her hands over his daughters forehead and chest. He does not move. He cannot. He hears gasps around him, but it is as though he is drowning and all sound distorted by the waves that threaten to engulf him. Slowly, the ugly red burns that had covered Shireen’s hands and face and arms begin to fade…and then disappear. Barring her Greyscale covered cheek, Shireen’s skin is as clear and smooth as before.

The spirit looks up and he sucks in a sharp breath, her calm face is now pained as dark marks, the exact shape of the burns that littered Shireen’s body only moments ago now appear on her. The spirit appears to be just shy of twenty years, beautiful even with the burns that now litter her face and neck and hands.

The spirit’s eyes turn desperate and she seems to flicker, her light dimming as she speaks.

_“Help me. Please.”_

The words burn themselves into his mind. He looks between the spirit and his daughter. Surely it is a trick of his eyes that he saw her chest move up and down in a short breath?

Stannis meet’s the spirit’s eyes, they are brighter than everything else and seem to plead with him. Her form flickers once, twice, _“Help me!”_ she pleads.

The spirit disappears.

Shireen’s eyelids flutter and she sucks in a breath of cold smokeless air. She is alive. Stannis falls to his knees beside his daughter and reaches out shaking hands to pull her to him.

Her voice is raspy as she speaks, vaguely aware of the howls that sound in the distance, but it is all drowned out by the relief he feels when Shireen’s eyes open and she speaks in a quiet, rasping voice and says, “Father?”


	2. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa wakes up back in Winterfell and discovers there are consequences to helping Shireen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're all far too kind so I couldn't wait to get this up ;D

Pain.

It’s too much—she’s too hot and she can barely move. The pain is everywhere.

_“My Lady…my Lady?”_

Sansa opens her sore red eyes and sees Theon, no, _Reek_ , hovering over her face, eyes wide and worried.

“I’ll fetch the Maester—“

Sansa’s hand shoots out and curls into a fist in his tunic, the skin red raw and blistering. “No.” She rasps, “Tell no one.”

The skin on her hands and face feels tight and hot, surely a very angry shade of red.

Reek stutters out a reply and she threatens him with Ramsay. With Myranda. With Roose. She says that she will tell them he did this to her, but if he stays quiet—stays loyal to her—she won’t say a word either and he will be safe. “You killed my brothers,” she says, “it’s the least you can do for me.” His eyes are wide and he trembles as he nods, leaving quickly through her door. Sansa hears the lock click into place as the reality sinks in.

It’s impossible and yet…perhaps her dream was real after all.

She smiles through the pain.

During the day Sansa rests, but at night she delves deep into her wolf dreams. She does not return to the silvery, shining state of before, but the red furred wolf that travels with her pack. Often she will track the soldiers who had been with Shireen, the girl she had saved, watching from the safety of the trees as they travel quickly toward Winterfell on horses.

For some reason the name seems familiar to her.

The pack stays close to protect her, perhaps knowing that these soldiers are dangerous. Nymeria yanks at her tail when a woman, dressed all in red, is tied to another pyre and set ablaze. Sansa does not move. The girl she had saved and the man who she had spoken to stand and watch as the woman curses them loudly before she too screams, her body engulfed in smoke and flames…and then falls silent.

Sansa does not help this time.

She had often asked to leave her room during the day, before she became the wolf, and now her requests have stopped it’s been noticed and they wonder _why_. She says she is tired; she wants to work on her needlepoint; she is not fit for company. Sansa comes up with a multitude of excuses, staying there alone as long as she can before they cotton on and she finally claims illness and they leave her be. Mostly.

When in Winterfell Sansa avoids everyone but Reek who steals salves and tonics from the Maester for her. She does it all herself, carefully applying the paste and sometimes bandages to the burns, wincing when she pulls them too tight or becoming frustrated when they are too loose and she has to redo them. Anyone who enters without her permission, maids and sometimes Myranda, means she covers herself head to toe in a bed sheet and huddles close against the wall. Sansa tells them to leave her alone until they do so, waiting until she can hear their footsteps fade down the corridor before she uncovers herself.

Most of the burns have yet to fully heal. She knows there will be scars in places, some on her hands, certainly one on her jaw and right cheek. Some have already healed and when uncovered the new skin shines strangely in the light.

It was wishful thinking that she could be fully healed before he visited her.

Ramsay arrives, clearly in an odd mood when he steps into her room; she can hear Reek’s faltering steps behind him.

“Reek has told me you are unwell…and that you don’t want to see me, _My Lady_.”

Sansa can feel her father’s former ward’s apologies all the way across the room. She forgives him, it was to happen eventually; Ramsay’s visit was inevitable, but she has finally worked out what to say to him.

The bed dips as Ramsay sits down. It’s a small bed, and it’s not the chamber they will share when they are married. If they are married.

“It’s very _ungrateful_ of you to refuse to see your future husband—“ Ramsay puts his hand on her arm and his fingers dig into her skin. The pain is intense and she clenches her jaw around the pained scream, but she cannot stifle it all.

Ramsay hears it of course.

She can feel his confusion, his anger, as he pulls away the sheet from her head, tugging on some of her hair in the process.

“Don’t look at me!” She cries and tries to curl further in on herself as the rest of the sheet is torn away. She knows he can see the shiny burns on her legs and bandages on her arms and hands. He doesn’t touch her, he seems too shocked to say a word. “Don’t look at me.” she says quieter when the silence stretches on too long. “I’m _hideous_.”

She prays this will work.

Sansa allows herself to be turned over onto her back. The tears are not feigned, the burns still hurt terribly, and she flicks her eyes up to meet Ramsay’s cold ones before she looks away.

“Did you do this to yourself?” he says slowly, “Are you that desperate to leave me that you would try and burn yourself to death?” his voice is dangerous. A similar pitch to when he had flayed the Northern Lord for refusing to pay his father…or for the maid for trying to help her escape her room when he locked her in the first time.

“Perhaps I should remove all the candles and let you sit in the dark—”

Sansa lets out a sob and shakes her head, choking on her tears “I didn’t, My Lord!”

“You didn’t?” he says. He sounds surprised. One of his hands trails up her arm, undoing the bandage there, pressing uncomfortably against the reddened skin. “Then who did?”

“Please, My Lord, I can’t—“

He presses harder and Sansa gasps as his other hand snatches her chin. “Look at me. _Tell me_.”

You can do this.

“Myranda, My Lord.” Sansa whispers, lip trembling as a tear slips down her cheek and Ramsay seems to freeze as though he can’t quite believe it. Sansa presses on, desperate, letting the tears fall freely now and making sure her voice wavers with emotion. “I want to be a good wife to you, My Lord…but she said…she said that you were hers and if I was not pretty you would not want me. She said that she was going to make sure she is the only one you want—”

She is relieved when he pulls away, but she makes sure to carry on crying as he strides toward the door, his face like thunder. He says nothing except to order Reek to stay and _"guard his lady’s room"_ before he leaves, the door slamming shut behind him. As Sansa hears his footsteps fade down the hall she allows herself a small smile through her tears. It has worked. She is sure of it.

That night she is attended by the Maester who gives her something stronger to help with the burns and the bruises and he wraps the bandages far better than she ever did.

Reek says nothing to her, nor Ramsay.

She does not see Myranda again.

Soon enough she is allowed to leave her room and the lock is no longer used. She proves her devotion and perhaps Roose Bolton has told his son to stay away from her to aid her recovery.

The ‘betrayal’ of Myranda must have grieved him. Good.

Now she is more often in the company of Lady Bolton whom seems to take pity on her, often going on about the ‘awful girl’ of Ramsay’s and how she won’t hurt Sansa ever again.

It takes very little to earn her trust and become Lady Bolton’s particular friend.

Now she hears all the gossip without barriers. Battle plans and snippets Walda has learnt from eavesdropping on her husband’s conversations and snooping through his papers - only encouraged further by Sansa’s interest. It is clear the girl has never had very many friends and perhaps Sansa is the first to show a keen interest in what she has to say, but instead of Walda feeling powerful and in control like perhaps she wanted to, Sansa is now the one with the power as Walda seeks harder to earn her favour. A rare smile from Sansa makes the girl work harder for information until one day she tells Sansa something that makes her hands pause over her needlework.

Stannis Baratheon is planning to attack Winterfell. His daughter _Shireen_ travels with him.

Her shock must have shown on her face because Walda leans over and tries to comfort her, wrongly interpreting the emotion as fear. “Oh, don’t worry. My husband would never allow such a thing, we will be perfectly safe I assure you—”

Sansa tries to focus on her words for the rest of the afternoon but what she has been told plays over and over again in her head.

Shireen. _Shireen_ Baratheon.

No wonder the name was familiar to her. Shireen was Stannis Baratheon’s daughter—and they were coming to Winterfell…the army she had been following in her wolf dreams was his!

Suddenly the plans Walda had spoken about made her feel ill and she begged to return to her room, feigning illness.

“Oh, alright,” Walda says, disappointed that Sansa did not want to hear more of how safe they would be at Winterfell and how the Bolton’s would prevail against this false King.

Sansa curtsies to Lady Bolton, feeling ill and looking pale, and retires quickly to her room. She sits down on her bed and tried to keep her breathing steady, trying to not let the panic take her as she thought of Stannis Baratheon failing like he had done at the Blackwater.

_He can’t! He’s so close!_ Sansa thinks, her breathing still comes quickly despite her efforts. Eventually she does manage to calm down but in the end it is all for naught as Ramsay finds her, having been told of her distress by Lady Walda.

Ramsay explains how he will kidnap the Princess while the camp is sleeping. Then, how he will use her to make Stannis surrender, and after he does so…he will flay them all.

“It’ll be hard work of course,” Ramsay said while stroking her arm up and down in mockery of comfort, his breath was hot in her ear as he spoke “but I’m a Bolton so I’d do it well. Their bodies will look lovely displayed on the outer walls, don’t you think? There’d be enough of them to go all the way around!” Ramsay laughs. Sansa wants to retch.

She trembles as Ramsay presses a cold kiss to her forehead and leaves her room. Only then does she allow her true panic to show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought it might be a little too crack-fic ish at first but I'm so glad you're liking it!  
> Hell yeah for Stansa AU <3


	3. Protector

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay and his 'Twenty Good Men' arrive in Stannis' camp.

Shireen woke with a start, her heart beating frantically against her ribs as she looked around the dark tent. It was quiet, all things undisturbed except for the tent flaps which blew lightly in a cold wind. They had been fastened tightly before she went to sleep, she was sure. She pulled the furs up closer to her chin, still fearful, and looked to the bed beside hers. It was closest to the tent entrance, and empty, but that was no surprise.

After Lady Melisandre’s death her mother had taken to wandering about the camp when she couldn’t sleep. Those who had worshiped the Red God had been quiet as of late after the death of the Priestess but Shireen could see relief on many of their faces.

If any god was spoken of at all it was the Spirit who had brought her from the Pyre and healed her. Some thought it was the Northern Gods but others thought it was one of the Seven, the Maiden.

Shireen could barely believe what she’d heard, at the time all she’d felt was pain and sharp teeth biting through the ropes that held her to the stake and she didn’t think the maiden had teeth and claws.

The soldiers who spoke about The Spirit said she was beautiful—enchanting. They said that she’d saved Shireen because she was the true heir and her father was the True King of Westeros, blessed by the Gods, old and new.

Shireen hadn’t seen the spirit though she wished she had. She had fainted, the smoke in her lungs too much and the shock overwhelming her body until she’d woken in the arms of her father and the spirit gone. She saw the King at least once a day now, and sometimes she was even allowed to ride beside him as they travelled. Their relationship was tentative, Lady Melisandre having guided her to the Pyre and tied her up, her father shocked and angry to find the Red Woman had disobeyed him. And then the fire had been lit.

She didn’t blame her father, but it was clear he did. _“I’m not injured, father!”_ she had said once, hoping to cheer him, _“The spirit saved me.”_ This only seemed to make him feel worse, perhaps because he hadn’t saved her himself.

Shireen was just about to lay down and go back to sleep when a noise from outside caught her attention. Someone was outside her tent, their shadow was cast on the canvas by the light of the torches placed about outside. Shireen felt herself break out in a cold sweat, her heart beating faster against her chest. Where were her guards?

“Father, is that you?” she said quietly.

The tent flap was pushed aside. Queen Sylese entered the tent, her hood pulled back to show her disapproving face. “What are you doing awake?” she asked.

“Oh.” Shireen breathed, feeling stupid but relieved. “I thought I heard something.”

Her mother rolled her eyes. “It was just the wind. Go back to sleep.”

Shireen did as she was bid and closed her eyes. She heard her mother remove her cloak and get into bed. However, she was just drifting off to sleep when she heard her mother start to struggle in her bed. Shireen turned and froze when she saw three men, tying a gag around her mother’s mouth and bind her struggling hands and feet with rope.

“Gods, keep still!” one of them hissed, and when she wouldn’t, the other hit her mother hard over the head.

Her mother’s body went limp.

Shireen’s eyes flicked upward to the third man and her breath caught in her chest. The man’s eyes were a cold, hard grey, that made shivers travel down her spine. In his hand he held a sharp, shiny dagger that glinted in the low light. “Don’t be alarmed Princess, no harm will come to you.” he said quietly though his smile said otherwise. Shireen opened her mouth, her gaze flicking to her mother who was lifted like a sack of flour and tossed over one of the men’s shoulder, “Ah, ah, ah! Don’t make a sound Princess, things could become very unpleasant for you…”. Shireen didn’t think she could make a sound even if she wanted to. She watched helplessly as her mother was carried out the front of the tent by one man, the other following. They seemed to go completely unseen by whatever guards stood about the camp. She didn’t want to think about what had happened to those who had stood outside her tent only hours ago.

The grey eyed man walked forward and Shireen scrambled backward “Who are you?” she asked terrified.

“My name is Ramsay.”

“Bolton?” she asked terrified.

Ramsay smiled.

Shireen moved a little farther back and her hand met air, her eyes widened as she fell hard onto the floor and the breath left her in a whoosh.

Ramsay smirked. “Careful now, we wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself…” he knelt on her cot and leant over, his empty hand reached out and latched onto her shoulder in a painful grip, while the hand that held the knife twisted so it would be easier to strike her with the handle of the dagger. He meant to kidnap her — he was going to take her like those men took mother! Shireen took a deep breath in, ready to scream, and she saw his eyes widen in realisation.

Ramsay drew back his hand, ready to strike her, when suddenly a red furred wolf shot out from underneath cot, and with a strong jaw full of long sharp teeth, latched onto the hand that held the dagger and bit down hard.

Shireen’s scream mingled with Ramsay’s cry of pain and the wolf’s fierce snarls.

Ramsay released Shireen and tumbled forward, hitting the floor face first, the dagger falling from his grip as the wolf’s jaw clamped down on his wrist. Above the snarls of the wolf Shireen could hear distant shouts and the clang of swords.

Ramsay howled in pain and the wolf went for his face and throat, jaws snapping a hairsbreadth away as his fingers struggled for purchase in the dark fur as the two struggled—Shireen scrambled back so she would not be attacked too. She shoved herself beneath a table in the corner of the tent. The cold snow covered canvas made her shiver but the sharp snaps and snarls of the wolf and the struggles of the man made her remain where she was rather than running out - the two men from earlier could come back and there could be more wolves too.

Finally the wolf gripped her attacker in a strong bite and shook Ramsay’s now limp and bleeding body like a rag doll. Shireen shivered and buried her head in her knees, her hands coming up to cover her head as all over camp the howls of wolves sounded. The shouts of her father’s men came closer, sounding loudly as the alarm was raised.

She heard the wolf pad across the canvas to where she was hidden and she tried not to show how afraid she was.

Wolves, like dogs, can sense fear and she desperately didn’t want to be attacked.

Shireen sent up a prayer that The Spirit would save her from the wolf…

Hot breath washed over and she squeezed her eyes shut tight, ready for the wolf to bite her.

No bite came, only a wet muzzle and low whine as the wolf shuffled forward and nuzzled her folded arms. Shireen whimpered and did not look up, her knuckles turned white where they gripped her arms. The wolf seemed to huff before it turned and sat down atop her bare feet, shuffling backward till its back was pressed uncomfortably against her legs, shielding her from sight.

*****

_“It’s a sign — the sigil of the Stark’s is a Direwolf!”_

_“Not to mention the Princess was saved by the Spirit—”_

_“Perhaps it’s thanks for saving the Night’s Watch—”_

_“Finally, some luck at last!”_

Stannis looked at the dark smudge on the horizon that was Winterfell. They were finally here. Despite the cold, the burning of Melisandre and the death of his wife from the attack on the camp a week ago (the blow to her head was severe and she did not wake again), the morale of his men is high. Stannis listens to them talk with half an ear. He isn’t a religious man but these signs are almost too good to be disbelieved. His daughter rescued and healed after she was set to a burning pyre when she was beyond saving; A wolf appears, several in fact, and they take down the Bolton raiders who captured his wife and sought to weaken them through burning their supplies. The wolves had either killed or captured the men, holding them down, only releasing them when Stannis’ men had appeared.

Those who had survived the sharp jaws of the wolves were drained of every piece of information they had regarding Bolton’s plans and Winterfell’s defences. They also said that Roose Bolton had planned a match between his bastard and Sansa Stark to secure the allegiance of the Northern Lords - but it had not yet happened — and would not. Considering Ramsay’s body had been burnt along with the rest who had tried to kidnap his wife, daughter and destroy their supplies, it would have been impossible.

Stannis looks over his shoulder to where Shireen is walking along, the red furred wolf at her heels. She seems happier now. She had been nervous at first around the beast after it had rescued her, but now they are inseparable and it is fiercely protective of her which comforts him a little. He doesn’t know what magic had governed the beast to be there in her tent when the Bastard had come calling, but he is grateful. The beast only allows himself and Davos near without a warning growl, to everyone else it makes sure they keep their distance.

He can recall with perfect clarity how, after hearing his daughter’s scream, he had run to her tent to find the body of Ramsay Bolton and a large red furred wolf guarding his daughter. His men had readied their swords after hearing the rumbling growl building in its chest, but Stannis, ever wary, had stopped them. He was quite sure, for a mere moment, the wolf’s eyes had glowed with a eerie white light. Then it sniffed the air and tilted its head to the side as Shireen had struggled behind it’s furry bulk and tried to shush the beast. He had been surprised, as had Davos, when it listened and shuffled away so Shireen could stand and rush over to him.

“Ready the men,” He orders and they rush to obey.

They attack Winterfell tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All your comments are just amazing, reading them helped me get through my day so I've decided to post the third chapter now :D


	4. Knowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is a badass.  
> (what's new?)

It has become as easy as breathing to look through the eyes of her wolf and then bring herself back to Winterfell again. If Sansa is in Walda’s company she will mumble something about how good it is to be back at Winterfell, or how lovely the fire is, sit back and close her eyes. She can still hear Walda in the background as she checks on Shireen and listens to the girl talk about her father and Davos and how excited she is to see Winterfell. Shireen believes wholly in her father’s success and does not seem to think his failure an option.

If anyone was to look at her they would see a peaceful expression on her face, perhaps assume she is resting and decide to leave her be. Sansa wants to try and accomplish the same when she’s standing. So far she’s fallen over, but she’ll keep trying.

As she spends more time switching back and forth between the wolf and herself in Winterfell she finds her senses sharpening and improving. However, her temper and manners do not. She often has to hold herself back from devouring the bloody steaks that they have in the store rooms by the Kitchen; She asked for her meat to be cooked rare once, and they noticed. Lady Walda commented on her dinner with a wrinkled nose while Lord Bolton watched her curiously. Sansa had played them well, blushing, and said she had seen some had a preference for it and wanted to try. They seemed to accept it, thinking her far too gentle or simple, or they too clever, to try and deceive them.

Sometimes, when she returns to The Pack she can tell when Arya comes and goes. Nymeria’s eyes are much more knowing when she’s there, much fiercer. She wonders if hers are the same.

They run together and hunt together, just the two of them. She hopes her little sister is safe wherever she is, and that she will come home to Winterfell soon. Sansa will make sure that it is a home, a true home for them all soon enough.

She will make sure Stannis Baratheon succeeds this time.

It will not be a repeat of the Battle of the Blackwater.

During the days she spends them with Walda they sew and chatter and Sansa pretends to mourn for Ramsay and those ‘ _twenty good men_ ’ when they do not return. Inside she could not be happier, knowing that she had thwarted his plan herself and protected Shireen.

Having lived in Kings Landing, and then played the Bastard Alayne when in the Vale, she has become quite the actress. She even shares a giggle or two when Walda tells her that her Lord Husband has been very dutiful recently. The loss of his bastard must have been a low blow. Sansa hopes it hurt him.

Walda is of course full of praise for her Lord Husband, sharing her secrets with Sansa seems to be thrilling to her as she bashfully admits that she was a little nervous when she was told she would be married to the so called ‘ _leech lord_ ’.

Sansa smiles and nods along, making the appropriate noises in all the right places. She can almost pretend that they are friends and it is not Lord Bolton, her brothers murderer, they are discussing.

It’s just after dinner when she is ordered to see to Lady Bolton.

She knows what it’s about - King Stannis is about to attack. It’s like the night of the Blackwater where the Queen called all the Ladies to her and they had cried and prayed while she sat and drank with a guard at the door. Sansa has no intention of being trapped like that again. So, showing the right amount of courtesy, politeness and obliviousness, she asks if they can walk along the ramparts before Stannis begins the attack.

“With all our food stores I do believe I will be inside for quite some time.” Sansa says with regret. She makes sure to use the full effect of her Tully Blue eyes.

The guard buys it and agrees.

They all think her harmless; It’s amusing really.

When they reach the top and walk along to a more secluded spot - most of the soldiers who remain behind are stationed at the main gate - she pushes him from the wall easily and takes the dagger from his belt as he falls.

He’s not expecting it and the only sound he makes is a terrified gasp that is lost in the howling of the wind.

Sansa continues walking as though nothing has happened and, with a smile, tucks the dagger beneath the folds of her cloak and heads for the Godswood.

*****

She remembers her father often came to sit at the base of the Weirwood to clean his sword, Ice, and how she had come here to pray. Before they’d left to go South with King Robert, she’d often prayed to both the Old and the New Gods.

Arya said she was hedging her bets.

Sansa argued that she was simply honouring her heritage.

Back then the Old Gods had been terrifying, their screaming faces had horrified her and the red sap that leaked from their eyes and mouth always gave her shivers. Now they were a comfort. Silent and strong…

As her foot slipped and the bark bit into her hands she let out a very unladylike curse. Arya would have laughed had she been watching.

Gods, Sansa wished she had been able to get away with wearing breeches. She’d likely torn her underskirts, and in the end, to save herself from stepping on them and breaking her neck, had hiked them up around her waist so she could climb the tree properly. Now she was showing off her underthings!

Her arms ached as she pulled herself up once more to reach the cradle of branches she was aiming for, completely out of sight of the ground. Her grey coloured dress and fiery red hair would blend right in too should anyone think to look up instead of straight ahead.

As she slumped back against the branches, relieved that the ordeal of climbing was over, she took a minute to catch her breath and get comfortable. She would be sitting here for a long time. Perhaps when the Bolton guards noticed her missing they would look for her, though there were would be very few in Winterfell by the time they noticed as most of the host was going out to fight Stannis - which was exactly why she was here.

Her breathing having returned to normal, Sansa let herself look around her one last time and allowed herself a small smile. The Godswood is an obvious place, but, of course, gentle high-born Sansa Stark would never climb a tree, certainly not one so tall. How she would laugh at their faces if she got the chance to tell them!

Sansa realised she couldn’t delay meeting the pack any longer, so, with a deep breath in, she closed her eyes and slipped into the mind of her wolf.

*****

Shireen tries not to pick at her nails. The King has only been gone an hour, Davos said they might be all night, or perhaps longer before they send for her. Shireen knows her father is capable and strong and sure to win, but she worries all the same.

Her thoughts must have shown on her face because Spirit comes over to her and nudges her face with her muzzle, the snuffling wet nose against her neck makes her giggle and the wolf draws back seemingly pleased with itself.

Spirit lets out a rumbling purr and closes its eyes as Shireen uses one hand to gently scratch behind its ear. “Why is it,” Shireen says slowly, “that I have the oddest feeling you can understand me?” Spirit opens one eye at the sound of her voice and whines in the back of her throat. It sends shivers down her spine.

Suddenly, the soldiers who were left to guard her and their supplies let out surprised shouts and Spirit stiffens. Her ears twitch this way and that before a sharp bark from outside sends her leaping from the bed and bolting outside. She shoots through the tent flap and past the guards who let out curses as they’re knocked aside.

Shireen rushes to follow, shouting, “Spirit wait!” but is stopped by the arm of Ser Justin Massey who now replaces the guards that were killed the night Ramsay Bolton attacked.

“Stay here, Princess, you shouldn’t get too close to that one…” he nods in the direction Spirit had run and Shireen sees another wolf, larger than Spirit and much fiercer looking. “That, I believe, is a Direwolf.” He says somewhat nervously. His hand is clenched about the handle of his sword. He shares wary glances with the others who have remained behind - all have their hands on their swords.

“It’s like Ghost,” Shireen mutters as she looks. She can barely believe it, but, Spirit seems to be having a sort of ‘conversation’ with the new wolf. Then she spots the others behind it. They are beyond counting, all colours, all sizes, seemingly lined up and waiting. For what she doesn’t know.

Then it becomes clear.

Spirit trots over to her, casually ignoring the tense guards, and nuzzles her face letting out a little whine. Why does it feel like she’s saying goodbye?

Shireen wraps her arms around Spirit’s neck and buries her face in the fur at her throat, tears springing to her eyes. Spirit whines again and struggles in her grip though the wolf could easily break if she wanted to.

“No, don’t go, you have to stay here with me!”

Spirit lays her head over Shireen’s shoulder and whines again before she draws back to look at her. Spirit casts a look over her shoulder at the wolves and then back at Shireen, and suddenly she knows. They’re waiting for her.

“You’ve got to come back.” She whispers, her hands falling limply to her sides. She’s never had a pet before, if a wolf can be called that.

Spirit nuzzles her, giving her a brief lick on the side of her face before she turns and with a piercing howl, runs over to the other wolves who leave as quickly as they came.

Shireen doesn’t return to her tent until the last one has disappeared from sight.

*****

He stands at the front of his soldiers, mounted on his horse, sword gripped firmly in his hand. They will take Winterfell. Perhaps not tonight. Perhaps not tomorrow. But they will take it.

The gates open wide and mounted soldiers pour out onto the frozen land, the thundering of hooves echo in the air as they race toward them. Stannis looks over the forces and quickly realises that Bolton has far more men than he does.

Apparently a siege was no longer on the table.

He can feel the tension of his men behind him. However, Bolton and his men may know the land but they did not hold out in Storm’s End for a year; They did not defeat the Ironborn when Balon Greyjoy sought to make himself King; They have not planned and strategised for months on end; They did not have John Snow who knew the castle inside out to assist them.

They do not have the experience he does.

Stannis knows he can win this.

After he has taken Winterfell, he will install the Stark girl as Warden and she will rally the North to his cause. Then the Iron throne will be his.

The soldiers come closer, horses snorting and hooves drumming on the ground. Just a little closer…

“ _Ready_ —”

He is about to give the order to charge when, seemingly out of thin air, hundreds of wolves appear. They seem to come from every crack and crevice in the stone walls of Winterfell, from the gates, from the land beyond it and even the land around it. So great in numbers that at points they seem to become a roiling mass of grey, brown, black, white, silver and patched fur, an overwhelming tide that snap and snarl and scare the horses.

He hears his men cheer or gasp or thank the Gods as the formations on the opposing side breaks, the horses terrified, skittish and desperately try to avoid the snapping jaws of the wolves. They toss their riders from their backs, often trampling them as they struggle to get away. Some of the wolves soar through the air, their sharp teeth and jaws closing around an arm or shoulder or throat to knock the men out of the saddle and to the ground before they move onto the next unlucky soldier.

None head their way at all.

He is almost too stunned to move. _Almost_.

The King allows himself a small smile, barely a twitch of his lips as he holds his sword high in the air. His men do the same, their eyes alight, and as he yells, his men echo his words with a roar — “OURS IS THE FURY!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who leaves Kudos and comments on the chapters of my fics, definitely makes it all worthwhile! 
> 
> And now, to bed!


	5. The Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title says it all really.   
> There's also one more chapter to come (I had to split this last one in two) so it's not over yet!

The tide has turned, thanks to the wolves. What first looked to be a hard won battle that would have lasted all night, or a slaughter that may have taken mere hours, has turned out to be a sure victory for him. As he casts his eyes quickly about The King sees most of his forces are still intact and in formation. Perfect.

Already they are pushing back the Bolton charge with men being cut down left, right and centre. Their deaths are quick. He is not cruel.

Many of the Bolton men had set their horses free. The wolves snapping at the horses heels made them bolt and toss their riders from their backs which had made them more of a liability than a benefit.

When they realised a short time later that the wolves seemed to be on Stannis’ side too, there was more than fear in their eyes and a good portion of the army threw down their swords or fled.

As Stannis charged, Lightbringer cutting easily through the soldiers that were stupid enough to stick around, Bolton’s eyes flickered up and Stannis saw the fear there.

Bolton turned and fled.

Apparently he had not planned for a defeat, counting on their knowledge of the land. But Stannis knows battle far better than this ‘leech lord’ on both land _and_ sea. He will not be defeated by the Boltons and he would never run and let his men fight and die for him if he was not right there beside them.

The passage of time seems different in battle. Fast and slow all at once. He is covered in blood and the ground has become slippery with it as he makes his way to the thickest part of the fighting.

He is an example to his men and they follow his lead.

_Victory will be ours._

*****

The wolves have done well but it is only the first part of her plan.

Sansa stands beside Arya, their fur keeping most of the cold out, and together they lean back and howl loud and clearly into the cold dark night.

The hunt begins and those who had deserted the Boltons, seeking another entrance back into Winterfell will remember the sweat pouring down their faces and backs of their necks. The sharp teeth of the wolves come next followed quickly by the pain.

As they lie there, bleeding out in the snow. Some will think, before their last breath, they see the Stark girl, clad in silver light. They believe their vision to be false - she is safe inside the castle - and they look at her with regret, with fear, with hope.

_“Have mercy.”_ They say.

_“Forgive me.”_ They say.

_“ **Please**.”_ They rasp.

The spirit leans down and lowers her hand over their eyes.

They no longer feel their wounds, only the cold.

*****

He was heading toward the gate, and though on foot, would surely reach it before Stannis managed it, even though the king was mounted on a horse.

At least the wolves were gone.

Wolves.

_Robb Stark_ had owned a Direwolf before they'd cut off his head.

It was far too much of a coincidence that a pack of wolves, so large they had easily taken a chunk out of his army, seemed to attack the Bolton forces and leave Baratheon’s alone.

He would be having _words_ with the Lady Stark. After he had stripped every piece of skin from that usurpers frame!

Bolton ground his teeth together, his face contorting in rage. He should have never left the safety of Winterfell — a siege would have been wiser as he had first suggested it. Why had he listened to Ramsay? The boy was untried and untested and had failed in kidnapping the princess even with his ‘ _twenty good men_ ’. Then the boy had got himself killed. Again, wolves were the culprit. Just another thing he would have to _discuss_ with Lady Stark. Well, after Stannis and his men froze to death outside their gates he was sure Walda would give him many sons who would all learn from their bastard brother’s mistake.

A ‘ _lucky_ ’ Baratheon soldier manages to reach him before he can make it to the gates. The man goes down like a sack of grain, eyes wide as he bleeds out on the ground. Roose steps over his body like he is not there.

The gate continues to lower, though at a faster rate, the clank of chains becoming louder and more frequent. He is running now.

“OUT OF MY WAY!”

He can still make it, though it will be a tight squeeze. The men up on the walls are shouting at each other as they try to reverse the lowering of the heavy gates.

A body falls from the wall above to the ground beside him.

The gate is closing.

He throws himself onto his back, his armour helping him to skid across the compacted ice and snow and just underneath the gate—the chains clank and creak as they are sucked through the pulleys and the gate crashes to the ground.

The pain is slow in coming, but when it does, Roose Bolton sucks in a sharp breath that he releases in a furious yell. The end points of the gate are conical shaped pieces of dark metal, dull from years of raising and lowering, not sharp at all, blunt almost, but the force of the gate slamming down, released from its catches, is still enough to send the point of one straight through his thigh, pinning him to the ground.

He tries to lift the gate himself but it is no use, it’s far too heavy. He calls to his men to help him, and some do, two, but the gate is still too heavy and when the howl of wolves raises above the sounds of battle their eyes go wide and they flee, leaving him to his fate.

The screams of his men, the clash of swords, the blood that has stained the snow and boots that have turned it to a dark sludge…he can see and hear and feel it all. Even the screams of the men from the battlements of Winterfell and the dull thuds as they hit the ground seem faded to him. He turns his head to look about and by his guess there must be no more guards atop Winterfell either.

There must be a traitor in their midst. He wonders who it is. He will skin them when he finds out.

Roose lifts his head enough to look down his chest, past his impaled thigh, and through the gaps in the gate to see the Stark girl walking calmly toward the gate. She cannot be there though - she is with Walda, he had ordered the guard to take her there himself. The girl seems to emit a white light too. Has he lost that much blood already?

His vision swims and he can’t keep his head up any longer, letting it thump back onto the cold ground. He hears hooves approach, then someone dismounts and boots enter his field of vision. He looks up at Stannis Baratheon who still does not wear a smile, the man may be incapable, but there is a satisfaction in his eyes that Roose hates.

How he wished he could make him scream. He would make it last.

“Any final words?” _The King_ says.

Roose says nothing. He will not give him the satisfaction.

The world is going dim now, the pain in his leg almost overwhelming. Perhaps he will pass out before long—

The gate gives a sudden jerk and he cries out. He is no longer cold but sweating all over. The gate shakes again. Forward and back, up and down, irritating the wound further and more blood leaves the gaping hole as the gate raises up - he expects it to slam down again - he looks for the source of his torment but there is no one there. None except the silvery apparition of Lady Stark who smiles politely at him, hands folded neatly in front of her. The gate begins to rise, slowly, more and more until it clicks into place as far as it will go, open once more. Lady Stark grins.

Roose looks at her, ignoring Baratheon who flicks his gaze there and back again, his eyes moving straight over her as though she is not there at all. “You’re going to wish for death, girl.” He spits. “I killed your brother and I’ll kill you too.” the world around him spins and his head ends up back on the ground. He looks at _The King_ , sword raised high, and prays that the Old Gods give this traitor what he deserves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up being much longer than I anticipated so I did have to split it into two (the second part is now being edited and should be up in the next few days). Hope you're all having a brilliant week so far :) 
> 
> Was also thinking of John Snow when I wrote this bit "The spirit leans down and lowers her hand over their eyes. They no longer feel their wounds, only the cold."


	6. Lady Stark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> where the story ends...for now

Sansa opens her eyes back in the Weirwood tree in the Godswood and breathes in a deep lungful of freezing air. It stings her mouth but it tastes so much sweeter now the battle is won.

Stannis Baratheon had succeeded, and with her help, he had killed Roose Bolton. As soon as he had done this what little remaining resistance from the Bolton forces surrendered and the King himself had mounted Bolton’s head on a spike. The spike was then set into place high above Winterfell's gates and Sansa had felt such a wave of relief. As she heard the orders from King Stannis to secure the rest of the castle Sansa sent ‘spirit’ back to Shireen with a dozen other wolves to help her take down any remaining deserters should they cross them on the way.

Now Stannis and his men, who did not immediately need a Maester, were beginning the cleanup, likely already planning to burn their dead and that of their enemies before long too. Hopefully they would know to strip them all of furs and armour and anything useful first. No one can afford to be wasteful in Winter.

Sansa intends to climb down from the Weirwood, as now she is Lady of Winterfell (though Walda may say differently when they find her) Sansa knows she needs to greet the King and thank him properly. It’s a nice thought of course, but getting her limbs to work normally however is another matter.

Slowly, and with a lot of low pained groans, Sansa carefully uncoils her legs and rubs feeling back into her stiffened limbs trying to get the blood going. Had she been able to get away with more layers she would have done so, not knowing how long the battle had gone on for, but feeling it was a significant amount of time, she is at least glad she was able to wear a cloak. The first thing she will do, after attending her duties, is have a nice hot bath or sit beside the fire. She needs to ask the servants to prepare a room for His Grace and the Princess whom she is sure will be arriving in the next day or two with ‘Spirit’ at her side.

The climb down is difficult. There are a few moments that her heart beats wildly enough to burst from her chest when her foot slips and the bark digs sharply into her hands, but eventually, she makes it down to the ground and slumps back against the trunk of the tree, eyes closed as she calms herself. Then, she stands, straightens her back and heads for the courtyard.

*****

Stannis understands the heat of battle, the rush of adrenaline and the pain of wounds, but that is no excuse not to listen to him.

“Do you need a Maester, ser?” he grinds out when the man’s face goes slack and his eyes widen in the middle of Stannis’ orders. It is clear he has not heard a word he has said! The soldier is looking at something over Stannis’ shoulder, and as he looks to the rest of his men, he notices the silence in the yard.

It’s easy enough to follow their gaze, but even harder to believe what is so plainly before him.

_It’s her. The Spirit._

The men mutter around him. Each nudging those who are not looking and all stop their duties to stare. _It’s her_ , they say. _The Spirit is here!_

Except she’s not a spirit. She doesn’t glow with a white light or seem to shine like the moon over a still pond.

The young woman is real, the solid curves and dip of her waist attest to that. She is, quite simply, stunning. Her hair falls loosely in a long waves over her shoulders, blue eyes bright as she looks at him.

“Your Grace.” She says, curtseying. Her fiery red hair falls forward, glimmering in the torchlight, and then falls back again in a soft wave when she straightens.

He cannot stop the words from coming, and his men echo it in whispers behind him. “It’s you.” He is sure it will be all over camp in five minutes and Shireen will have heard of it by morning.

There is no denying it. The girl, no, woman, speaks with her voice. He is struck dumb, his brain defunct; there is not a single coherent thought left other than It’s you, barrelling about in his skull. He is sure Robert and Renly would have laughed themselves sick about Smart, Witty Stannis having nothing intelligent to say.

“I knew you’d do it.” she says and just as he is about to speak, she smiles. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

The glow he had dismissed before is present in her eyes.

*****

She is efficient, and he cannot deny it, quite charming. She is introduced to Davos and several of his bannermen to whom she speaks politely and with thanks for helping to free Winterfell from the Boltons. They look at her with nothing short of reverence, clearly remembering the way she had emerged from the fire holding Shireen and how the wolves and fought in the battle…

Lady Stark makes suggestions throughout the hours they spend securing the castle, refusing to leave him to do it himself.

“It will be done much quicker if we work together, Your Grace,” she looks up at him knowingly, “It is my _duty_.”

Stannis knows all about duty, and so, lets her remain with him.

They direct the collection of furs and armour and swords to the Great Hall where they will be sorted through in the morning. Horses that have escaped are rounded up and led to the stables, and the wounded are moved inside the castle where they can be treated easier. Her suggestions, more often than not, are followed as though he had been giving the orders himself - the men only look to him for approval which he gives with a nod. Many of her ideas seem to be in line with his own and so it is perfectly natural to walk about the castle with her beside him making sure everything goes smoothly.

It is not in his nature to submit but eventually he finds himself being guided to his room where a hot bath and clean clothes are laid out. The furs are piled up on the bed and a fire crackles in the grate.

“There is still much to be done—“

Lady Stark looks at him, polite as ever and manages to put down every objection he has, managing to swiftly manouver him into accepting her hospitality. She says something about how she will never be able to repay his bravery in coming to free Winterfell, and herself, from the Boltons.

“I believe you helped with that, My Lady.” he says lowly. They both know what he’s talking about. The corner of her lip twitches upward, but she says nothing else. “In any case I must thank you…for my daughter.”

“Oh—it was nothing, I mean—” She tries to protest, brush it off as though her actions were not something that should warrant praise from a King.

Stannis steps closer and he takes her wrist in his hand. The room seems to become twice as warm in mere moments as she stills and gives a sharp intake of breath. Her skin is unbelievably soft underneath his callused fingers and fearing he might cause her pain, he gently pushes back the sleeve of her gown to reveal the healing burns that circle her wrist.

“It was _not_ nothing.” he says, his voice rough. He fears the expression on his face, far too intense to be comforting, will scare her. She doesn’t startle or cringe away, instead she looks back at him, eyes wide with two spots of colour high on her cheeks. It really is warm in here. “I don’t know how you did it, but you saved my daughter from certain death and somehow took her pains for your own…if you ever have need of anything, tell me so and I shall try to fulfil it. I am forever in your debt.”

He lets her hand slip from his grip as she curtsies, pink cheeked and chest moving rather noticeably with each breath she takes.

Stannis feels rather odd when she leaves, a peculiar feeling building in his chest that almost makes him wish he had the right to ask her to stay.

*****

They hear the wolves before they see them. Howling and yapping and playing with each other as they escort the Princess and the rest of her wary guard through the gates of Winterfell. The wolves immediately bound toward the couple standing at the centre of the yard, one tense and uncomfortable, the other openly smiling. Her beauty is breathtaking as she bends down to pat and stroke each of the wolves who beg for her attention, tails wagging enthusiastically.

Sansa looks up at The King, he’s stiff and never seems to relax for even a moment. She wishes he would. “They won’t hurt you, Your Grace.” she says, and then even quieter so the men around them cannot hear, “I wouldn’t let them…” Sansa quickly looks back to the gates trying to hide her blush and the King clears his throat, eyes just a little wider than normal.

Shireen arrives on horseback before he can even begin to form a reply. Her happy exclamation of “Father!” prompts The King to move toward her and help her dismount.

The Princess Shireen is full of smiles and seems excited to be in Winterfell, chattering a mile a minute about what had happened since The King had left to fight. She gestures to Spirit who appears and trots over to Sansa to let her rub behind her ears and scratch underneath her chin. When Shireen’s gaze follows the wolf and she sees Sansa, the girl gasps and says, _“It’s you!”_

_Like father like daughter_.

Lady Sansa merely laughs, delighted, and comes over to meet the little girl. She has a feeling they are going to be very good friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because we all know this was only meant to be a 3,000 word fic that (again) spiralled out of control. and I know I've marked this as finished but you never know, I may actually come back to this. Oh who am I kidding. OF COURSE I'LL COME BACK TO THIS. Feel free to leave me suggestions and head cannons etc in the comments below ;D
> 
> You've all been so supportive of my writing for this ship and it's spurring me on for the others. Thank you so much for all the comments kudos and for chatting with me, I've never felt so welcome in a fandom or particular ship more than this one and you certainly make me want to write more!
> 
> As sure as Winter, updates are coming ;D

**Author's Note:**

> I've started a new job and it's actually going to take up most of my summer (cries because money) so I'm going to be working really hard on my days off to get By My Hand and All Is Aglow finished (because writing fic is actually really soothing) and we all deserve it after season 5. Did they write it while high? No wait, that probably would have been better.
> 
> Also, just so you know, I only meant to write a note for myself for this idea to be written later and then ended up spending my day off writing AND FINISHING this fic.  
> It's short.  
> Sort of.
> 
> Back to working on By My Hand...


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